But it smelled like soup, clean laundry, and safety.
We didn’t have much. My clothes were hand-me-downs. My shoes were patched together with duct tape. Our Christmas tree was older than I was.
Birthdays meant homemade cake and maybe five dollars in a card.
But I never felt poor.
Because I had them.
Henry worked as a janitor long after his body started failing him. His back ached, his knees locked, but he never stopped.
Martha cleaned houses until her hands were raw from chemicals, yet every night she would still sit with me, gently brushing my hair while I struggled with homework.
They never missed anything.
Even when I was just a tree in a school play… they were there, clapping like I was the star.
“You have enough,” Martha would whisper. “And having enough is a blessing.”
